


Alley Of Flowers

by arsenouselation



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universes, Gen, No pairings - Freeform, Time Travel, general mind screw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arsenouselation/pseuds/arsenouselation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a beautiful, beautiful dream, and it is through this dream that they meet. Through a kaleidoscopic looking-glass, amid the flowers of the alley.</p><p>Just beyond the reach of snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alley Of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> May be subject to future change.

 

All _e_ y of Flow _e_ rs

—

V I I

Mystic shadow, bending near me,  
Who art thou?  
Whence come ye?  
And – tell me – is it fair?  
Or is the truth as eaten fire?  
Tell me!  
For I dare – I dare.  
Then, tell me!

STEPHEN CRANE, _The Black Rider and Other Lines_

* * *

i, beautiful, beautiful dream

 

It is a beautiful, beautiful dream,  
and it is through this dream that they meet. Through a kaleidoscopic looking-glass, amid the flowers of the alley.

 

Just beyond the reach of snow.

 

The boy stands at the end of an alley, narrow, half-hidden. He is alone in the harsh, biting cold.  
( _God, it stings_.)

 

The sun is a ball of white cold light, draping everything in opalescence. Azaleas, carnations, myrtles fill wooden stalls, lines both sides of the alley. People fill the place; buying, looking, haggling. Geraniums, begonias, oleanders. The boy watches with morbid fascination the cinematographic scene of colors, dream-scents, _thoughts_ —all painted in great detail. Voices, laughter, footsteps, _clinks_ and _clangs_ fill the boy’s ears. This is the usual humdrum of life, made melodious by the dream. The brick walls—the pastel flowers—the sunlight—the melting snow— _everything_ bursts with realism.

 

Even with his uncanny ability, the boy is overwhelmed with the undulation of the senses. In this dream, he has become even more percipient, his power heightened.  
For a very long while, the boy fervently studies all of these: the dewed petals, the lines on the people’s faces, the staccato rhythm of feet. For a long time, he listens.

 

 _How much for these?_ Fifty cents apiece. _Take these ambrosias, they suit your wife._ Why yes, yes they will.

 

 _Charles_.

 

Suddenly, an unnamable fear stops his heart. That is his name. The boy is stilled for a moment, caught between inhaling and answering. Then—

 

(PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE. there you are. _save me._  
nothing will go wrong. _YOU’RE A COWARD._ a cent for the extra ribbon?  
 _red or blue?_ name, names, I CANNOT REMEMBER MY—  
 _will you finally say yes?_ eyes—eyes!—MEEK and mild. _Come here, boy_.  
i hope so.blue please.do you love yourcountry?ican’tmovemylegsmoveinandstrike _YESyes I do_.)

 

—the great wave of thoughts writhes, lunges, crashes upon the boy. Myrtles, hyacinths. His dream-consciousness slides in and out of focus, the cacophony of fragmented thoughts burning the edges of his vision blue. His lungs are tight, the voices getting louder, threatening to engulf his little heart. The boy tries to breathe, squeezing his eyes shut in panic, in tremendous pain.

 

A force pulls at him, trying to drag him forward into the alley but also simultaneously pushes him back. Pain is exploding in his chest and head, its intensity so great that his blue-tinged vision is overcome with black. He tries to stop the furious cerebral waves from crashing on him completely but—

 

 _Look at me, boy.  
_ [a veil of silence, everything just _stops_.]

 

Charles takes a deep breath, relief a cold breeze in his lungs. Almost hesitant, Charles coaxes his eyes open. Everything is back in its vividness—the flowers, the snow. Roses, daisies.

 

With a kind of dreadful instinct, he sees her almost immediately among the crowd. There, standing in the middle of the alley, is a woman in a vision of white. Even whiter than the snow.

 

They look at each other for a long time. Her silver gaze is quiet, impassive (unnerving). Around them, the dream continues superfluously, but now devoid of any sound and thought. Charles almost welcomes the newfound peace in his mind—for once there are no alien thoughts, no unfamiliar images.

 

But it is short-lived. For when the woman takes a step toward him, Charles feels a pressure tugging at his mind. Gently drawing him towards her.

 

Silence rings at his ears.

 

“Did you have this dream before?” the woman asks gently, and although her lips do not move in speech, Charles hears her voice resounding in his head. Strongly so.

 

_Yes. Many times._

 

“How do you know?”

 

The pull is suddenly stronger, knocking the breath out of Charles’ lungs.

 

_I don’t. I don’t remember. But I know, I know I’ve had this dream before._

 

“You’re a peculiar boy. What is your name?”

 

_I’m Charles. Charles Xavier._

 

The woman smiles at him wanly and Charles cannot look away. Without thought, he tears his gaze from her and glances down at her hand. Stark and purple and cruel against the fair complexion of her fingers, sits a monkshood flower.

 

* * *

He wakes  
(his head pounding like from a massive hangover)  
and for a moment, his eyes see nothing but the bright flowers of the alley. The roses, orchids, ambrosias, monkshood—

 

The monkshood.

 

Terror passes through his unmoving limbs, leaves a trail of coldness on his spine.

 

Snow. He clears his eyes and finds snow falling on his face. For a glass-like second, Charles is calmed. It is dawn and everything is in neutrality: no thoughts, no voices, just silence. And snow.  
 _Snow?_

 

But it’s spring.

 

The thought almost makes his heart jump out of his chest, terrified, bewildered at the prospect.

 

An arm swathed in blue sleeves descends close to Charles and he feels fingers brush across his cheek. Light and cold (di-vi-ne).

 

Pain surges up Charles’ temple as snatches of images from the dream come back to him. Suddenly, everything bursts to life and chaos; and for a fleeting second, his dark room is replaced with the alley—the pastel flowers, the people, the monkshood flower.  
Charles wrenches himself from the images and looks up. A lump forms in his throat at what he sees.  
Silver, mercurial, the eyes of a goddess.

 

He finds the stranger bending near him, the hand that touched his cheek resting on top of the bedcovers. Her hair is silver, windswept and snow-crowned; lips black and blue as if she just stepped out of winter’s harsh cold.

 

 _Charles_. Her voice whispers in his mind, anchors him back to reality.

 

“You were in my dream,” Charles finds himself saying, unable to look away from her. Crystalline silence washes over the room and he finds, with trepidation, that his mental reach is enveloping the whole mansion and even beyond. Something he couldn’t do before. A thousand thoughts cut through his mind—a thousand pictures—but Charles realizes that he is keeping them at bay with an indifferent ease. Something he could never do before.

 

“You are Charles?” she asks, voice raspy and almost inaudible.

 

“Yes, I am. You were in my dream,” Charles repeats as if to convince himself.

 

“Not a dream Charles, but a brushing of fates,” the goddess says, looking down at Charles with those too-beautiful eyes and too-beautiful face (terrifying and lonely).

 

She touches his cheek once again and Charles falls back into sleep.


End file.
